Page 37 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

“Of course we’ll dance.” His voice dropped, low and sure.

“We’ll celebrate in the central northern courtyard all night long and greet the sun as the blood moon begins its final descent.

It won’t be a feast, not truly. If you eat, temper your hopes.

There’s an abundance of deathbeak meat. Bren, Candice, Kiln—they’re doing what they can.

The alchemists are brewing comforts. But the point of the dance isn’t abundance. ”

His thumb brushed beneath mine. “It’s a celebration of survival.

We dance because we’re still here—not because we were spared, not because the Witheringlands showed mercy.

But because we endured. And so we honor the living and hope the Maker remembers us and brings us out of this place to the Waking Lands.

” He drew my hand to his lips, cool breath brushing my skin before his mouth pressed reverently to my knuckles.

“If you feel strong enough…I would be honored to have you at my side as my honored guest…as my queen.”

My breath caught. The touch of his lips—cold, delicate—sent a ripple of sensation down my spine. A whisper of something deeper. “I’d like that. Is there anything I need to do?”

“Rest. Recover. You may come down whenever you like, but when you hear the music start, that’s when the dance begins. There are some formal tasks I must prepare and some matters to oversee, but I will meet you there.”

I nodded, then set the mug aside on the small table beside the bed. My fingers lingered on the cool surface, reluctant to break contact with something solid and real. "Thank you.”

His expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he masked it.

"You've thanked me enough. Rest now." He stood, his wings rustling as he moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle.

He looked as if he might be about to say something, his shoulders tightening.

Then he opened the door and strode out, letting the door click shut behind him.

I lay back against the pillows, heart thudding. The room felt larger with him gone. Emptier. Colder. The sensation of his touch lingered like a ghost against my skin.

My fingers traced absent patterns on the blanket as I tried to process everything that had happened.

The behemoth attack. The vines. The tablets. The blood moon. The curse. Enola—bleeding hemlock, if she’d been here, she’d have teased me for letting Vetle hold my hand, let alone carry me. I’d have told her to be still, of course.

But I couldn’t lie to myself. Especially not now when I was alone.

The way he’d looked at me—like I was precious. Like I wasn’t just a solution, but someone he couldn’t bear to lose.

As if I mattered.

I closed my eyes, but instead of finding rest, my mind churned. What if the tablets revealed nothing helpful? What if Rasoul's blood showed no change? The weight of those questions pressed upon me, constricting my breaths.

Maker, help us.

I forced myself to sit up, covering my face with my hands. “Please don’t forget about us here. Please. Let this curse end without bloodshed. Protect us. Don’t abandon us in this place.”

The room was silent except for my ragged breathing and the distant sounds of activity somewhere in the palace. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to steady myself.

A knock at the door made me jump.

"Come in," I called, dropping my hands.

The door pressed open, revealing Gehn. He held a large black wooden box in his hands.

“His Majesty asked that this be delivered to you.” His usually dull grey eyes twinkled a little as he placed it in my hands.

“Looks like you actually are a princess, Your Highness. You just took the less traditional path to getting there.”

Lou stood behind him holding a smaller box. Both looked as pleased as if I were their sister or daughter preparing for a special event. “The dance starts when the sun sets. Not much longer to go. Do you need anything? Need one of the women to come help you get dressed?”

“I can manage. Thank you.” I found myself smiling.

I went into the washroom and cleaned myself up again.

The bandages fell away, revealing whole flesh with only minor traces of bruising.

The back of my thigh where the deathbeak had stabbed me had been stitched.

Doctor Rasoul had used the same heavy black thread that all the others had on them.

I traced my fingers over it, surprised to find it did not hurt much.

In a sense, it was as if I somehow did belong here.

Not on the outside of the outside-wall. But here. In the palace.

I washed my face and neck, then dried off with one of the soft grey towels.

My reflection in the polished metal mirror showed someone I barely recognized—bruised beneath the eyes, hair clean but tangled, but alive.

Very much alive. I combed it out with a bone comb from the cabinet.

Then I returned to the bed where the two black cedar boxes sat.

When I opened the largest, a rush of myrrh, cedar, cloves, pomegranates, and lavender filled my lungs. I lifted the gown from the box, and my mouth fell open.

It was simple but stunning, even with large patches bleached pale-grey or cream as if the color had been drained away.

The lavender fabric shifted shades when the light struck it, and all manner of creatures had been stitched into the fabric.

They weren’t visible if I looked at the gown directly, but when I turned my gaze to the side, the depictions of chimeras, dragons, water horses, and more came to life.

Some merged into the places where the fabric had lost its color.

But that did not keep it from being magical.

Carefully, I pulled it on. The light, cool fabric embraced my body, and it prickled against my skin as magic worked. It tingled and tickled, but the gown molded to me, becoming more comfortable and elegant at once as it adjusted to fit me precisely.

My eyes had been starved for color for so long that the lavender almost hurt. But it was a pain I eagerly embraced.

I then opened the second box. Nestled in ash-grey silk lay a collection of adornments: a set of silver bangle bracelets, the surface etched with curling vines and starbursts that caught the light.

Beneath these rested a pair of earrings. Tiny pomegranate seeds encased in clear resin, each one crowned by a delicate preserved star clove. I fastened one to each earlobe. That myrrh and clove scent from the star clove filled me with warmth.

At the bottom of the box, wrapped in tissue-thin silk, I found the shoes.

They were arched and narrow, clearly crafted for ceremony rather than comfort, with a line of dark beading down the outer edge like dew clinging to a blade.

Time had bleached parts of them, fading once-rich color into pale greys and soft lavenders.

But the shape held, and they were still beautiful—still meant to be worn, even if the world around them had fallen into ruin and been drained of so much life.

Even though I had worn Enola’s clothing many times over the years, this was different. Each piece somehow…it felt like each one fit me. As if somehow—some way, they had all been made for me.

I slipped my feet into the shoes, testing my weight. They not only fit, they were easy to wear, and my arches didn’t hurt.

A deep, resonant boom echoed through the palace walls—the sound of something being struck with purpose. It came again, joined by a higher tone, sharp and bright. Then another, lower still, like the earth itself had found a voice.

The music was starting.

My heart quickened as I opened the door and made my way out into the pale marble hall.

The percussion music grew louder, more complex.

I could make out distinct instruments now—the hollow thunk of what might be striking blocks, the liquid resonance of water drums, the bright cascade of something like a xylophone.

Bone chimes joined in, their ghostly tinkle weaving through the deeper tones.

The rhythm was hypnotic, primal, calling to something deep in my chest that wanted to move, to dance, to celebrate being alive. But most of all…to see him.

I followed the sound down the winding staircases and to the landing. The music grew stronger with each step, joined now by voices—not singing, but calling out, laughing, alive with joy despite everything.

My hands trembled as I smoothed the gown one last time. Nervous energy coiled in my stomach, equal parts anticipation and fear.

What would Vetle think when he saw me? Did I do the gown justice? Would he like me? I shook my head, trying to dislodge those thoughts. But they remained. I quickened my pace.

The northern courtyard opened before me, and I stopped at the entrance, breath catching.

Lanterns hung everywhere, their pale light pushing back the grey darkness beneath the dull light of the full blood moon.

The courtyard had been cleared of debris, the stone swept clean.

At the far end, musicians sat on a raised platform, their hands moving over drums and blocks and instruments I'd never seen before.

The stone floor before that appeared to be for the dancing.

Practically everyone had gathered here in the broad open courtyard.

There were guards on the walls and at regular intervals while others wore the guard uniforms but mingled as if they were prepared to be called onto duty.

Some of them wore bangles or scarves with scraps of color.

Everyone else wore what was almost assuredly their finest gowns and suits, all showing patches of faded color and traces of vibrance, some of the jewels and beads bright and others dim and faded.

Some of the children darted among the adults along the central dance floor while others colored and scribbled on parchment in the left corner beneath a trio of oil lamps. No one was dancing yet.